Mother. A word of beauty!

On the lips of 'man' or 'woman' kind;

According, partly, to the view of 'Gibran!'

'Her call,' the most beautiful of calls,

Reflects the affection reserved above all.

Mother, a source of hope and love;

A fountain full of sweetness and kindness,

Flowing from the depths of the heart.

She is everything! Our nurture! Our strength!

A well to dispense mercy, sympathy and forgiveness.

Mother. We should learn our lesson well!

You can be so much to each of us!

How will we accept your bounty?

The gifts you share, the blessing you tell,

The purity to be guarded constantly.

Mother! How well do I remember you?

You cooked, you cleaned, you gave each day,

A gift, a precious touch, in a caring way.

You rose with early dawn to prepare;

You ensured we advanced alert and aware.

Mother. Oft times you would wait the night;

Concerned, fretting for your charges return.

You welcomed, chastised and disciplined,

When oft our cares were set elsewhere.

You reminded us, in your presence, of what is right.

Mother. We are soon to forget your fruit.

Pearls of wisdom, knowledge which we would dispute.

Our seed, released to the wilderness,

Left to grow, nurtured and weaned in wilfulness.

We believed self-responsibity our only duty!

Mother. Earth's breast the nourishment,

Of generations of nature's occupants.

From plant and fauna, flower and grass,

To beast of burden, from first to last.

Each one to grow where best they are cast.

Mother. We are soon to part!

Our path leads to independence.

Your bosom, once warm, grows cold;

Our blindness clouds our hearts.

We forget your gift as we too are old.

Mother. Your dreams may be ours!

Where onward in life we fly;

Upward; toward visions and towers,

Noble goals, set upon high.

We pause and soar and grow.

Mother. When shall I your touch forget?

When shall my growth be your neglect?

My struggles, my joys, my success;

What reason? What ploy? What distress?

What leads me to be imperfect?

Mother. My present, my past, my regrets!

Whenever I have left you abject.

My misery, a curse upon my head,

Or prayer that I may once again retread

In the presence of love that springs from your depth.

1994 © Will George.     { From Gibran}